


no glitter in the gutter

by decideophobia



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Hurt, M/M, Season 3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-22
Updated: 2013-06-22
Packaged: 2017-12-15 19:55:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/853436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/decideophobia/pseuds/decideophobia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The sadness in Stiles’ eyes makes Derek avert his gaze. He doesn’t ask further, just listens to the slightly irregular palpitations of Stiles’ heart, registers the way the air catches in his throat on a barely audible hitch; smells the faint traces of tears.</p><p>He’s never seen Stiles this vulnerable and it makes his chest contract painfully.</p>
            </blockquote>





	no glitter in the gutter

**Author's Note:**

  * For [siny](https://archiveofourown.org/users/siny/gifts).



> So Cat showed me this poem and asked me to write something, so I did. It's settled somewhere between 3x03 and 3x04, there are mentions of Boyd and Cora but I don't dig into it for the simple reason that it would have made the fic unnecessarily complicated and much longer. Plus, the focus here is on something else.
> 
> The fic is based on [this poem](http://deanxstiles.tumblr.com/post/53519960066/found-in-the-glove-box-of-a-battered-baby-blue), and all the rules are taken from it. Lovely [Lydia](http://deanxstiles.tumblr.com/) gave me permission to use it. Credit is all hers.

Stiles is unusually silent, still-- subdued.

Derek knows Stiles can cram words where no words should go, can talk a mile a minute, can be loud and obnoxious and sarcastic; he also knows Stiles is kind of... fluent. He seems to be in motion all the time, some part of him moving in some way: eyebrows twitching, lips pursing, hands clenching, fingers tapping. He’s always at the front when it comes to plans, to helping, to connect the dots.

Stiles is calm and vigilant every other time. The things Derek’s seen him do, heard him say, watched him figure out-- he can’t even begin to imagine what it must look like in Stiles’ head. It’s a fleeting thought, though. Derek’s own mindset is somewhere else, focus solely on Boyd and Cora who are still knocked out from their full moon trip.

It’s only now, when Stiles is sitting on the couch in his loft, head tilted back to lean against the backrest and exposing the long, pale line of his neck, that Derek really notices. Notices the way Stiles’ eyes are closed, but his hands are clenched into fists so tightly the skin above his knuckles is bloodless white; watches the way Stiles’ brows quirk ever so minimally every once in awhile; listens in to the sharp, hitching inhales and his slightly too fast and out-of-pace heartbeat.

“--wasn’t them,” Scott is saying when Derek tunes him back in. Both Scott and Stiles came over as soon as possible, backpacks slung over their shoulders. They haven’t slept the entire night and here they are, sharing news with Derek before school. Isaac rubs at his eyes.

“What do you mean?” Derek asks, hoping to mask his inattention by getting a more detailed answer out of Scott.

“It means that it was neither Boyd nor Cora,” Scott explains, voice low and face somber; like this isn’t the whole story. “The murders-- you were right. They didn’t leave the preserve until we herded them into the school. That guy at the pool; they didn’t kill him.”

“Then who did?” Derek asks. “Didn’t Stiles say his throat was slashed?”

From the couch, Stiles exhales deeply, blinking open his eyes. “His throat is slashed,” he elaborates slowly. “But he’s also been strangled and he’s got his head bashed in. All three injuries were lethal. Each one could have killed him. That doesn’t exactly scream werewolf to me.”

There’s a beat of silence during which Derek tries to process the meaning behind what Stiles just said. Isaac’s brows furrow, Scott looks deeply distressed.

Stiles sits up straighter, leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “It’s the threefold death,” he continues. “That guy isn’t the only victim. There’s Hea-- another girl with the exact same injuries. And last night they brought in a girl from the woods who said her girlfriend’s went missing. I’m pretty sure she’s one of them too.”

Derek draws his eyebrows together. “One of whom?”

Stiles locks eyes with him for a moment, expression eerily blank. He says, “Sacrifices,” in a tone that makes goosebumps rise on Derek’s arms and chills run down his spine. “Human sacrifices.”

The silence after Stiles’ words stretches, reaches out and wraps itself around them. Stiles looks the most collected whereas Isaac looks from Stiles to Scott with wide eyes and shock written all over his face. Scott hasn’t heard this for the first time, obviously, but he seems to be affected still, eyes dismayed but the taut line around his mouth screaming of distress. Stiles, for all its worth, looks surprisingly detached.

“Why?” Isaac asks eventually, looking from Scott to Derek and then to Stiles. “And who would do this?”

Stiles shrugs scrubbing a hand through his hair. “Fuck if I know. In history, human sacrifices were practiced for a bunch of different reasons. They’re ritual killings, they serve a purpose, but these-- we have no idea who’s doing it and for what reason.”

Derek crosses his arms in front of himself, running a hand over his mouth. Ritual killings doesn’t seem like something the Alphas would do, or werewolves in general. On the other hand, Derek has a hard time believing that these murders just happen to coincidentally collide with the Alpha pack being in Beacon Hills. Yet, he can’t see a possible connection between these two... occurrences.

Stiles gets up from the couch and promises, “I’ll talk to Lydia about it.”

Derek isn’t sure if that’s supposed to be any help. He doesn’t voice this, however, just watches Stiles yawn and press the balls of his hands to his eyes.

“Gotta dash,” Stiles adds tiredly. “Wouldn’t wanna be late for school.”

The sarcasm is obvious, Derek can practically see Stiles’ brain reel, trying to figure everything out. He leads the way out, though, and Scott and Isaac follow him.

Scott stops at the door and turns back to Derek. “Tell me when they wake up?”

Derek nods once, and Scott sends him a tight little smile.

∞

Stiles texts him later that day. The police have found the missing girl, tied to a tree by her neck, covered in blood, with three deadly injuries.

∞

Ms. McCall leads him into the morgue, one hand firm on his shoulder blade. It’s an unfamiliar touch, it makes his skin crawl but, surprisingly, not in an unpleasant way. She doesn’t shy away from, isn’t afraid to touch him, and Derek admires her composure, her strength and willingness to help even though she’s been clued in only a little while ago.

“I don’t think I have to warn you not to tell anyone about this,” she says quietly to him. “But I will make it so it hurts if you do.”

He can’t help a little smirk and she rolls her eyes when she pushes the door to the morgue open. Stiles is standing next to the examination table on the left. The bodies are covered with sterile white cloths, and the cold air of the room makes the hairs on Derek’s neck stand up, the smell of death clogs his nose.

Ms. McCall nods shortly at Stiles, he tips his chin in return. She leaves after that, quietly shuts the door, and Derek turns to look at Stiles.

“Any clues?” Derek asks stepping over to him.

“No,” Stiles answers. His face is blank again, a cool mask of indifference, and Derek wonders what boils beneath Stiles’ skin. “I just wanted to show you. Maybe you know more than we do. Maybe you can make out a scent.”

Derek tamps down on a snort. There isn’t much to smell other than the scent of dead bodies and sterile hospital air. He arches an eyebrow still. “Scott couldn’t do it?”

“Scott doesn’t have your experience,” Stiles counters without missing a beat. For a moment, Derek wonders since when Stiles thinks Derek is competent enough to ask his opinion or advice. It wasn’t even him who figured out these murders, the threefold deaths of innocent people. Some part of Derek wants to laugh. How is he supposed to know something about this? If he’s honest with himself, he doesn’t know as much as he thinks he does.

He doesn’t say any of this. Stiles walks over the table on the right and folds back the cloth, revealing the ashen face of a dark-haired girl. There’s a deep cut across her throat and strangulation marks on her skin above the slash.

Stiles snaps a pair of gloves on before he gently cups the girl’s head and turns it a little to reveal the fracture on the side of her skull. Derek is a little bit surprised how quiet Stiles is, blank even. Again, detached.

“Have you seen something like this before?” Stiles asks as he carefully turns her head back. He strips off the gloves and throws them into the trash bin.

“No,” Derek admits on a sigh. “I haven’t heard of the threefold death before either.”

He half expects Stiles to roll his eyes and scoff, complain that Derek could’ve told him earlier so he wouldn’t have wasted his time here. Stiles doesn’t. Instead, he seems to slump a little.

“Smell anything unusual?” he asks then. Derek takes a deep breath, concentrating on the scent, but there still isn’t much more than old blood, dead skin, slowly rotting flesh: death all around.

Stiles shuffles quietly and throws the cloth back over the girl’s face. “Maybe you can make something out on the others,” he suggests, albeit without much conviction. He tries everything, goes through every option, but it’s not hard to see that Stiles thinks his efforts are doomed to fail. Derek himself doesn’t believe he’ll find anything on the other two victims. He’s humoring Stiles, tries to take some of the pressure off Stiles, even if it probably won’t make the boy feel any better about it. For all he knows, Derek could make out a scent; something that could bring them one step forward.

He uncovers the head of the guy Lydia found at the pool, gash on his throat angry and deep. There’s nothing. No scent that seems out of place.

When he’s folding the cloth back over the guy, Stiles says, “It’s okay. You don’t have to try with the other one.”

He looks defeated now, eyebrows drawn together in deep frustration. Derek walks over to the table on the left nevertheless, peels back the sheet. The girl’s face is bloodless, lips drained of color, her blond hair neatly folded under her head. Out of the corner of his eye, Derek can see Stiles turn his back to him, shoulders tensing.

There’s nothing on her that wasn’t on the other bodies too, so Derek covers her back up. He reaches for Stiles’ shoulder, feels the tense muscles under his hand, and gently turns Stiles’ around. The wave of grief and guilt and pain rolls over him, hitting Derek unexpectedly, and now he knows what boils beneath Stiles’ indifferent facade.

“You know her,” Derek states as he lets go of Stiles, watches him screw his eyes shut and his hand clench at his sides. “What’s her name?”

“Heather,” Stiles answers, voice choked off. Derek notices the tiny tremor that runs through Stiles’ body. “I was the last person who saw her alive. She-- it was her birthday.”

The sadness in Stiles’ eyes makes Derek avert his gaze. He doesn’t ask further, just listens to the slightly irregular palpitations of Stiles’ heart, registers the way the air catches in his throat on a barely audible hitch; smells the faint traces of tears.

He’s never seen Stiles this vulnerable and it makes his chest contract painfully.

∞

Derek’s parked in the car a couple of blocks from Stiles’ house. He types _We need to talk_ furiously into his phone. Apparently, Stiles knows the specifics of the people being targeted for the murders and _forgot_ to tell Derek about it. Scott refused to talk to him about it, waved him off saying he should go and let Stiles inform him.

He doesn’t have to wait long for an answer. _Come in through the window. Dad’s home._

Derek huffs out a breath, somewhat surprised that Stiles didn’t even question what Derek wants to talk about. He gets out of the car and makes his way to the Stilinski house. Stiles’ window is open when Derek leaps up effortlessly.

The floor of Stiles’ room is covered in sheets, his printer is busy spilling out more pages; there are several tabs open in Stiles’ browser and on his table are stacks of papers. Stiles doesn’t look up from where he’s sitting cross-legged amidst the pages when Derek silently hops into his room.

“What’s so urgent, big guy?” Stiles asks distractedly, shuffling through a couple of pages. Derek snatches the papers away from him and places them on the bed, looking down at Stiles’ outraged face.

“You conveniently forgot to tell me what people are being targeted,” Derek snaps. When Stiles doesn’t respond, Derek’s lifts his eyebrows. “Apparently, there’s a pattern?”

Stiles scoffs, annoyed. “Look, I know you’ve got a lot of other problems on your hands right now, okay? These murders don’t have anything to do with you or your pack, so I figured I don’t have to bother you with this.”

“They’re innocent people,” Derek insists. “Teenagers. Do you think I’m okay with them dying?”

Stiles’ mouth thins into a line. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Then tell me what you know,” Derek demands, close to losing his patience all together. Stiles stares up at him with narrowed eyes.

“I think you’ve got enough to worry about, dude, I don’t want to add to it,” Stiles deflects then, looks away and grabs for another set of pages.

Derek isn’t sure if Stiles is trying to piss him off purposefully, or because he’s genuinely convinced Derek shouldn’t be a part of this. Either way, Derek reaches for the sheets. Stiles tries to duck away this time but Derek’s faster, clamping down on the paper. Stiles throws him a dirty look getting up to his feet.

“Stiles--”

“It’s virgins,” Stiles grits out. “All victims were virgins.”

Rationally, Derek knows he shouldn’t laugh but this is so ridiculous it’s hard to tamp it down. Virgins. Right. Of course it would be virgins. He swallows down all the dry remarks he’d love to make about this. It wouldn’t be appropriate after all.

“So, you’re saying everyone who hasn’t had sex yet is potentially threatened?”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Why, Derek, thank you so much for defining what a virgin is, I wasn’t aware.”

Derek looks at him unimpressed.

“Yes,” Stiles adds then, in a sour tone. “Technically, it could be anyone within an undefined range of age. As long as the person’s a virgin, they’re in danger.”

Derek scrubs a hand over his face. Great. This is just great. How’s he supposed to know who’s a virgin and who’s not? Plus, Stiles was right. Derek still has an Alpha pack to deal with, has to take care of Boyd and Cora, who are still banged up from their time captive at the bank. Honestly, he doesn’t need another something wreaking havoc, but it is happening and something has to be done about it.

Derek exhales. “Does that put anyone in your immediate circle in danger?”

“If you’re asking if Scott, Lydia or Allison are virgins--”

“Stiles.”

There’s a beat. “No,” Stiles replies. “I don’t know about Isaac but apart from that... no.”

If Derek wasn’t paying attention, he would’ve missed the little uptick in Stiles’ pulse, or the way he scratched the back of his neck, casting his eyes down at the papers on the floor.

“What is it?” Derek asks. Stiles doesn’t meet his eyes, turns away instead and takes the freshly printed sheets from the printer.

“What about Isaac?” Stiles asks. Derek works his jaw, grits his teeth. This isn’t what he was asking and he’s aware Stiles knows.

“It’s fine, I’ll ask him,” Derek says, and thinks, _Definitely won’t ask_ , but he’ll make sure Isaac knows about this. “I don’t think it matters, though. Isaac can protect himself.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Stop deflecting,” Derek says intently.

Stiles makes a face, his whole body taking on a defensive posture. The bitter expression on Stiles’ face is what hits Derek, then and-- oh. 

“Oh.”

It’s out before he can stop himself, and Stiles’ lips twist into a sardonic smile. “Yeah.”

There’s a beat or ten of silence. Derek is at a loss of words, and his gut clenches at the sight of Stiles putting his brave face on, looking unconcerned for all the world. Of course Stiles doesn’t think of himself first, always puts others above himself, no matter the circumstances.

“You’ll be fine,” Derek manages eventually.

Stiles snorts in a way that heavily indicates he doesn’t think so. Derek looks at him, looks at the way Stiles pretends to be unaffected, worried about anyone but himself, and yet. Yet he’s well aware that he’s a potential target.

“I’ll--” Derek catches himself. “We’ll protect you.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Yeah, be the hero, save the virgin.”

“I’m serious.”

Stiles smirks dryly. “I’m a damsel, I’m in distress, I can handle this.”

“This isn’t funny.”

“It would be if you appreciated my humor.”

“Stiles--”

“Yes, Derek. You want to protect me? You’d have to be around me 24/7 and that doesn’t work. And contrary to popular belief I can protect myself. I don’t need a guard d-- a bodyguard to do it for me. I can keep myself safe.” Stiles’ voice is serious, with a barely there note of a plea; like he’s trying to convince Derek-- or maybe even himself.

Derek knows not to underestimate him. Stiles isn’t some helpless kid. He’s seen things, he knows stuff other people his age don’t even dream about. Things he shouldn’t be confronted with. Things that shouldn’t have happened to him.

Stiles is human, he’s frail, he breaks before he bends. But he’s persistent too, stubborn, resilient. He wouldn’t go down without a fight; he’s a force to be reckoned with. Maybe not in the same way as a werewolf but in his own ways. Derek knows that. He’s sure of it.

“Just watch out,” Derek says quietly. “And tell me when you find something.”

Before Stiles can answer, his father is calling for him from downstairs. Stiles scrubs a hand over his face.

“Coming,” he yells back. He sends a fleeting smile Derek’s way before he turns and walks out of his room.

Derek listens to Stiles’ footsteps, to him quickly running down the stairs, hears him casually say, “‘Sup?”

He tunes them out as soon as the Sheriff starts yelling, angry, exasperated.

Derek thinks he should probably go. He’s got the answer to the question he came initially for, so there’s no reason for him to stay any longer. But when he looks around Stiles’ room, he wonders what all the sheets and papers are about.

Carefully, he picks up a page and turns it over. It’s an article about the threefold death with some gruesome pictures.

He wanders around Stiles’ room picking up several different papers, looking them over. There are some more pieces about the threefold death, a few about human sacrifice and ritual killings, a couple of articles and theories about virginity and sacrifice. Derek doesn’t read all of it, just skims the texts, but in general, most of it is deeply disconcerting.

There’s a crumpled up sheet next to Stiles’ bed, by the nightstand. Derek is about to turn away again when he notices that it’s an older piece of paper, not freshly balled up but apparently several times. The paper is softer when he picks it up, used, the folds so old that they can’t be smoothed out anymore.

It has Stiles’ handwriting on it, Derek notices when he unfolds it. The letters are shaky as if Stiles wrote this with an unsteady hand.

The caption makes his breath hitch, throat clicking with a sudden tightness.

_Rules for running with wolves._

Derek knows, he _knows_ he shouldn’t keep reading. This is private, he’s not supposed to see it. He should do the right thing, should stop snooping, put the sheet back where it was.

He doesn’t. He can’t.

Twenty. Twenty rules.

The words and letters are rugged, some if the ink is smudged, a little bit faded. Derek wonders when Stiles wrote this, how long he’s been keeping it, folding and unfolding; reading and rereading; remembering.

_4: you are human. you are fragile. you break easier._

Derek’s skin crawls, he remembers the bruises on Stiles’ face the night they stopped Gerard, the night they finally got rid of the kanima.

_8: don’t make stupid mistakes_

He has a moment, reading this, that he realizes he doesn’t know all that much about Stiles, apart from the obvious and the little things Derek’s picked up on by interacting with him. Stiles isn’t flawless, he does make mistakes, but so does everybody else. Still, Derek wonders for a moment, if Stiles is referring to something in particular or if this rule serves as a plain reminder.

Derek keeps reading, swallows against the acidic taste in his mouth, the dryness of his tongue.

Reading this-- it’s like a blow to the head; it casts light on something Derek hasn’t considered before. Stiles has been mostly enthusiastic about the whole werewolf shebang. Even when he was confronted with a problem, he faced it, put up with it, solved it and moved on. He didn’t shy away. No matter how difficult or dangerous it got.

Now, it’s like Derek gets insight of Stiles’ head and of what he really thinks. That he’s well aware this isn’t just a game, isn’t just rainbows and sunshine. This right here, these rules, are the raw, genuine and frightening workings of Stiles’ mind.

_12: learn to protect yourself without claws_  
 _you can’t rely on them to protect you_  
 _(arrows are best)_

_17: you are going to get hurt. don’t let **them** get hurt_

Derek sits down on the edge of the bed, lowering the sheet and taking a deep breath. There are goosebumps on his arms and his heart thrums hard against his ribs.

He can still hear the Sheriff yell. Stiles doesn’t speak but Derek can make out his heart beat, fast and violent.

_1: tell no one_  
 _this means lying to everyone_  
 _this means lying to **your father**_

Derek tries to blend out the Sheriff’s sharp voice, his angry words, the uneven beating of his heart. _I don’t recognize you anymore._

He isn’t supposed to hear it.

_2: he doesn’t have to trust you_  
 _he has to stay ignorant_  
 ** _remember that._**

He feels hollow and guilty. Stiles had put up with so much crap since Scott became a werewolf. He didn’t have to. He could have turned a blind eye on it. He didn’t. He’s been there, all the time, always at the front, always doing _something_. Brave, stubborn, loyal, unyielding Stiles. Never takes crap from anyone.

There he is, getting yelled at by his father; just takes it-- _7: learn to keep your mouth shut_ \-- and he doesn’t even try to defend himself.

How much more is there that Stiles is hiding from everybody? Derek is almost one hundred percent certain Scott doesn’t know about this.

Derek’s throat feels too tight.

The Sheriff’s voice is hoarse and choked off. _I don’t know what happened to you._

There’s a hitch in Stiles’ breath, it sounds painful.

_20: he can’t lose you too: **remember that**_


End file.
